On the far shore Britannicus and his men had taken triumphant possession of the catapults and seemed to be milling about, having given up on chasing the Parthian artillerymen. Urgently Fergus turned to his cornicen, his trumpeter.
“Sound the recall,” he snapped. “Do it now man.”
Flustered, the cornicen raised his trumpet to his lips and blew. Then he blew again. The noise rang out across the river and the desert beyond. There was no way Britannicus could not have heard the signal. But on the far side of the river, the Roman legionaries did not seem to be responding. Suddenly Fergus gasped in dismay. From out of nowhere a line of Parthian horsemen had appeared and were galloping straight towards Britannicus and his men. And as he caught sight of the enemy, a flush spread across Fergus’s cheeks as he realised that he’d been had. The Parthians had struck back with an ambush of their own. The artillery position had been bait. He had swallowed it whole. On the left bank the small band of legionaries were isolated and about to be slaughtered.
“Sound the fucking recall again,” Fergus yelled at his cornicen, as he stared at the drama unfolding on the opposite side of the river. In response another furious trumpet blast rang out. On the opposite shore Britannicus had at last spotted the approaching threat, and as Fergus looked on, the legionaries turned and began sprinting back to their boats. But the Parthians were already upon them. Fergus groaned as he saw the small fast horses and their riders racing across the stony desert. A hail of arrows struck the fleeing Romans, mowing them down. Bodies went tumbling to the ground, arms went flailing and the shrill shrieks of panic drifted across the water, but Fergus was helpless to intervene. All he could do was watch in horror.
At the water’s edge a group of legionaries had managed to get one of the boats afloat and were desperately piling into it. Others were screaming as they raced towards the riverbank, only to be cut down along the shore, their bodies tumbling and spinning onto the ground and crashing into the river. On the boat the survivors were desperately trying to put some distance between them, but the merciless hail of Parthian arrows kept coming, picking off men and sending them tumbling into the river where the weight of their armour ensured that they went straight to the bottom.
At last the one-sided fight seemed to come to an end and the Parthian horsemen stopped shooting arrows and turned to rob and mutilate the Roman dead and dying that lay scattered along the riverbank. Fergus said nothing as the single boatload of survivors came drifting back into the right bank. And amongst the desperate, traumatised men aboard, he caught sight of Britannicus. The young tribune looked utterly shaken, humbled and distraught as he gazed into the water.
“They killed half a company of my men Sir,” the primus pilus hissed, as he gave Fergus an angry, resentful look. “And for what? I am going to make sure Gellius hears of this disaster.”
Chapter Thirty-Five – The Assault on Doura-Europus
The crack of the Parthian catapults was greeted with warning shouts and cries from the Roman siege fortifications. Fergus stood in his command post some distance behind the foremost Roman positions, gazing at the western wall of Doura-Europus. Columns of black smoke were rising from within the settlement. All morning from within the besieged city, the Parthian artillery had been targeting the line of Roman trenches and sharpened wooden anti-cavalry stakes that methodically cut the city off from the outside world. As he stared at the scene, another Parthian projectile came hurtling through the clear noon sky, landing in the open desert with a crashing thud and releasing a foul-smelling stench. In a reflex response, Fergus and the men standing around him raised their Bedouin style scarves to their mouths and noses. The Parthians, the battle group had learned to its cost, had started hurling poisoned gas projectiles at them as soon as the siege had begun a few days ago. The projectiles, sealed jugs filled with bitumen and sulphur crystals, were igniting to create deadly poisonous gases.
A little way behind the Roman field fortifications, a battery of Roman onagers and ballistae were shooting back at the besieged city. The twang of their twisted ropes and the sharp kick back, as the war machines released their large stones, reverberated across the open desert. Along the Parthian walls Fergus could see the defenders manning the battlements and stone towers and from one of the redoubts, a proud Parthian banner fluttered in the breeze. A day’s worth of Roman bombardment had not made much visible impact on the defences.
Stoically and silently Fergus allowed his eyes to take in every detail of the besieged city. Doura-Europus rested on an escarpment that rose three hundred feet above the right bank of the Euphrates. To the north and south the city was protected by deep, impassable ravines and to the east by the river, leaving only the western wall as the most exposed to attack. From his vantage point Fergus could just make out a thin and flat island in the middle of the Euphrates. Beyond the blue waters, on the eastern bank of the river, he could see lush, green cultivated fields, a welcome change to the bleak, barren desert that dominated the landscape. At the intelligence briefing before the battle group had started out from Circesium, the Palmyran guides and scouts had explained that Doura was a caravan city. A multi-cultural city of Macedonian Greeks, Jews, Parthians, Bedouin and Arab peoples with close ties to Palmyra to the west. It was not so much a stronghold, they had explained, but more a desert trading post that lay on the east-west and Euphrates trade routes, controlling an important river crossing. But from his vantage point the size and strength of the city’s western wall begged to differ with that interpretation, Fergus thought sourly.
From the corner of his eye, Fergus noticed a runner approaching his command post. “Sir,” the soldier gasped as he came to a halt before Fergus and rapped out a quick salute. “The legate has called an O group meeting. You are to report to his HQ right away.”
Fergus nodded quickly and turned to Britannicus who was standing close by. “Let’s go,” he snapped.
***
The battle group’s command post was nothing more than a square, half a yard-deep dugout, hacked out of the desert. In each corner a wooden pole was holding up a large cloth roof that flapped around in the breeze and shaded the legate and his staff from the burning sun. A legionary stood guard at the entrance.
As Fergus and Britannicus entered the command post, Fergus saw that the legate had gathered together nearly all his senior commanders. The legate of the Third Cyrenaica looked around forty and he had closely cropped white hair and a deeply tanned face and arms. A tense, strangely excited atmosphere seemed to pervade the HQ as the officers, clad in their dusty and stained uniforms and cloaks, stood around waiting for the legate to speak.
“All right, listen up,” the legate called out at last, as he turned to look at the stern, hard faces around him. “Our Palmyran allies have returned from the city. They say that the Parthians have rejected our final offer to surrender. Negotiations have ended. The Parthians are going to fight. Now I haven’t come here to conduct a long drawn out siege. My orders are clear. Take Doura-Europus as quick as possible. So, we are going to take the city today. We are going to storm the walls and finish this.”
The legate paused as he turned to a mock-up of Doura-Europus and the western wall that had been created out of sand. With his fasces, the bundle of rods and a single axe head, denoting the legate’s power to hand out capital punishment, he indicated the left half of the Parthian wall. “The Sixth and Seventh cohorts will lead the assault on this sector of the wall,” the legate said. “Fergus, your men shall lead the assault on the sector to the right. Our boats and scorpion bolt-throwers will ensure that any escape across the river will be made impossible. The attack shall begin with our Syrian archers moving forwards to provide cover for the legionaries. Each cohort will be issued with assault ladders. You are to storm the walls, clear the enemy from the ramparts and capture the western gate. Once we have the gates the rest of our forces will pour into the city.”
The legate paused and turned to look at his officers with a serious expression. “I want all of you to r
emind your men that the first soldier who makes it up onto the enemy wall and plants his unit standard there shall be rewarded with the corona muralis. I shall personally place the golden crown on his head.” The legate paused to again to let that sink in. Then he turned his attention back to the sand mock-up. “The Palmyran’s believe that there are no more than five or six hundred armed defenders inside the city,” he exclaimed. “Once we have possession of the gates and are into the city, anyone who continues to fight shall be killed. But,” the legate said sharply raising his hand. “If the civilian population surrenders they are not to be harmed. They are to be treated with respect. Make sure that your men understand that any looting, raping or murder will not go unpunished. Trajan is very clear. He doesn’t want to capture a devastated, ruined and hostile city. We are going to need Doura-Europus as a staging post for the advance into the heart of Mesopotamia. Have I made myself clear?”
“Sir,” one of the centurions of the Third Cyrenaica said. “I understand the reasons to treat the civilian population leniently, but they have refused to surrender. The laws of war dictate that they face the consequences of their decision. When the first battering ram or assault ladder touches the enemy wall, the lives of the people in the city belong to us. My men will not be happy that they have been prevented from taking what should rightfully belong to them.”
“I have been clear. The civilian population are not to be harmed unless they put up resistance. Any man caught disobeying these orders shall be punished,” the legate growled.
***
As Fergus made his way back to his command post he turned sharply to look at Britannicus, who was walking beside him. His young protégé seemed unusually quiet and despondent.
“I am putting you in command of our attack,” Fergus said. “Divide the First cohort into two assault groups. You will lead the first. I will lead the second. Once you reach the wall do not hesitate. I want our boys to be the first to capture those gates.”
“Sir, would it not be better to put the primus pilus in command of the assault,” Britannicus replied in an uncertain voice. “The First cohort are his men after all and he has the experience Sir.”
“No,” Fergus snapped switching to his native Briton language. “You are going to lead our men. You have the courage and you are a leader. I recognised that back in Zeugma. And there is only one way in which you are going to gain experience. By doing the fucking job.”
“But the disaster with the Parthian catapults Sir…” Britannicus’s voice trailed off.
“Listen,” Fergus said sharply as he came to a halt and rounded on the young tribune. “Every man makes mistakes. Shit happens,” he growled. “When officers like us make mistakes, men die. Sometimes many die. It is just how it is. But if one day you want to be a professional soldier, a legionary officer with your own command. Then you are going to have to get used to sending men to their death. There is no room for sentiment. Your job is to get the job done, nothing more. You are going to make more mistakes. You are going to get more men killed. That’s war. But you do not have the right to give up just because of one or two setbacks. You keep going until you either win or die. When you lead your men up onto that fucking wall remember that they will be looking to you for inspiration and leadership. And that’s what I too expect to see from you.”
***
The trumpet signalling the start of the assault rang out across the desert and from behind their fortifications, officers rose to their feet shouting orders. Hastily the Syrian archers and Balearic slingers began to move forwards, carrying their large light wood screens. Tensely Fergus watched the start of the attack from his command post. The wooden screens would provide enough protection from arrows and spears but could not stand up to a direct hit from one of the Parthian catapults. Luckily the enemy seemed to have only a limited number of war-machines. As the archers and slingers moved towards the western wall of Doura-Europus, the defenders up on the ramparts unleashed a hail of arrows and sling shots at the advancing Romans. From his vantage point Fergus could hear the defiant howls and furious screams of the defenders and the thud and clatter of missiles hammering into the wooden screens. In the open ground a Parthian projectile exploded into a cloud of poisonous vapours. Doggedly the archers kept on moving forwards. Then as they had reached missile range, they lowered their wooden screens to the ground and started to shoot back at the defenders up on the walls. On the left flank of the Roman assault, one of the defensive screens had received a direct hit from an incendiary projectile and was burning fiercely, sending choking black smoke wafting across the battlefield.
Seeing that the archers and slingers in his sector had reached their advanced positions, Fergus quickly turned to his cornicen.
“Order the legionaries to commence their assault,” he called out.
A moment later the signal for the general assault to start rang out across the desert. From their trenches where the men had been waiting, the first wave of five hundred men from the First cohort surged forwards in small groups. The legionaries, protected by their shields and those of their comrades, rushed forwards carrying their long wooden assault ladders. Here and there a man was caught by a Parthian arrow and tumbled to the ground, but the cover provided by the Syrian archers was keeping the Parthians from effectively impeding the Roman assault. Fergus bit his lip as he watched the legionaries, led by their officers, storm towards the walls. The moment when the assault would either succeed or fail was rapidly approaching.
Fergus grunted at the sight that had started to unfold before him. Across the open desert in front of the western wall of Doura-Europus, over a thousand heavily-armed legionaries were storming the Parthian defences. The air was thick with missiles whining and whirring in both directions and the shrieks, screams and shouts of thousands of men. As he gazed at the scene, a Parthian projectile went hurtling straight into a small, tight knot of legionaries blowing them apart. The horrible, high-pitched screams of the wounded were clearly audible. Out in front, the first of Britannicus’s men had reached the Parthian walls and were raising their ladders against the ramparts. Up on the wall, the Parthian defenders were throwing everything they had at the legionaries below.
“Are the second group ready to advance?” Fergus snapped, as he turned to the primus pilus who was standing beside him watching the assault.
“They are Sir,” the commander of the First cohort replied. “But I would advise you not to deploy them yet until we see how your young protégé performs. I do not want the rest of my men being caught out in the open.”
Fergus said nothing. The primus pilus was being an arsehole. The officer had been annoyed and jealous that Fergus had not chosen him to lead the assault. For if the attack succeeded, the glory and increase in reputation would be considerable for the officers involved.
At the base of the walls several assault ladders had been pushed up against the defences and the first of the legionaries were scrambling up them, under a murderous and frantic Parthian aerial attack. And amongst the hard-pressed legionaries Fergus suddenly caught sight of Britannicus, distinguishable by his helmet and red cape. The young officer was clutching the banner of the First cohort.
Tensely Fergus gazed at the furious battle that was developing for the walls of the city. On the left flank of the attack, the first of the legionaries seemed to have managed to reach the top of the wall. Hand to hand combat had broken out with the desperate defenders but, as he peered at the fighting, Fergus could not see any Roman unit banners atop the defences.
“Look Sir,” the vexillation standard bearer suddenly cried out, pointing to the walls. “That’s our banner. It’s on the top of the wall. He’s done it. The young whelp has done it Sir. He is the first to make it up onto the enemy ramparts. I am sure of it. The corona muralis is his.”
Fergus blinked as he stared at the Parthian walls. Then he grunted and raised his eyebrows. The standard bearer was right. The standard of the First cohort of the Fourth legion was being held up atop the walls of
Doura-Europus.
As he stared at the fighting more and more legionaries appeared on the walls, scrambling up their ladders and the barrage of Parthian missiles seemed to slacken. On the ramparts the shrieks and screams of desperate men could be heard and as he stared at the scene, a Parthian tumbled from the ramparts and fell screaming to his death.
Fergus had seen enough. Quickly he turned and strode out of his command post in the direction of the dugouts, where the second half of the First Cohort were patiently waiting for the order to advance. As he hastened towards his men, his staff, the primus pilus, cornicen and the standard bearer, clad in his lion’s head and holding aloft the square vexillation standard of the Fourth, hurried after him. The centurion in command of the four hundred or so men in the second wave looked surprised as he recognised Fergus. In their dugouts the legionaries were anxiously and silently watching the fate of their comrades up on the walls.
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 34